Buenas Noches de Una Habitación Solitaria (Ella Llevaba Vestidos Rojo
by Lancer1968
Summary: Murdoch and Maria Story - Warning: Adult, Dark, Violent and Cussing


Buenas Noches de Una Habitación Solitaria

(Ella Llevaba Vestidos Rojos)

Buenas Noches from a Lonely Room

(She Wore Red Dresses)

Summary: Murdoch and Maria Story

Warning: Adult, Dark, Violent and Cussing

Any and All Disclaimers Applicable

Story based upon: Dwight Yoakam's Beautiful Haunting Lyrics and Vocal of Buenas Noches from a Lonely Room (She Wore Red Dresses)

She wore red dresses with her black shining hair  
She had my baby and caused me to care  
Then coldly she left me to suffer and cry  
She wore red dresses and told such sweet lies

I never knew him but he took her away  
And on my knees like a madman for vengeance I prayed  
While the pain and the anger destroyed my weak mind  
She wore red dresses and left the wounded behind

I searched 'til I found them, then I cursed at the sight  
Of their sleeping shadows in the cold neon light  
In the dark morning silence I placed the gun to her head  
She wore red dresses, but now she lay dead

February 23, 1852

Murdoch slumped in his chair at the Gato Negro cantina with a whiskey glass pressed to his forehead that he rolled slowly across his furrowed brow, to offer maybe one minuscule morsel of respite from his throbbing headache; tear stains lined his cheeks. The deed was done; his wife lay dead alongside the gambler she had run off with to live in a hovel not fit to pass as a pig sty in Sonora, México. "The drunks are all passed out, others are too scared to walk thru the valley of the shadow of death and the rest are nothing but cowards," he mused. "No one ran to their aid and no one is coming for me." He raised his glass and murmured sarcastically, "Viva México."

Whatever the reason, no one did go to view the blood-stained bodies in the early morning neon light after the loud report of gunfire filled the peaceful calm of the ebbing night. He had tossed a $20 dollar gold piece onto her body as payment for some pine box in a shallow unmarked grave, which is what the gold piece would buy the bitch, what she deserved, nothing more. The other one could rot in hell.

He had crossed the US-Mexican border, searching for his wife and their baby son, Johnny, based upon skimpy information from the California West Coast Pinkerton "We Never Sleep" Detective Agency. A few greased palms in Tucson pointed him to Tombstone and then on to Nogales where he confirmed Maria and a gambler named Harvey Lee Qualls had crossed the border early-February.

Murdoch had spent the last week inside one cantina after another searching for his wife, the gambler and the whereabouts of his baby son, who was the most imperative dynamic of the three. Having met Maria, in similar surroundings, common sense told him that she would return to what she was, what she knew, back to where she came from. All he cared about was Johnny. "Maria could spread her legs to every hombre malo in México and I don't care anymore," he told himself.

"Good God man," he reflected to himself, "It's been a year since I first saw her, flamenco dancing for her keep on top of a table in another cantina, El Gallo y La Luna in San Luis. He had been in México for a bull buying trip to his old companero, Alejandro Santiago Diego, a breeder of the finest Corriente bulls either side of the border. It was Alejandro who took Murdoch to the "The Rooster and the Moon" cantina after they had concluded their business for a night of celebration during the elaborate Carnaval fiesta. This was México's largest celebration during the year; where everybody wears their fanciest duds and loses any of their inhibitions or what little morals they processed throughout the México. The dancing, drinking, and debauchery went on for days with music, food, fireworks, and parades even in that sleepy little border town as people reveled in the celebration until the wee hours of the next day.

Murdoch was a forlorn man, having lost his wife five years earlier due to complications after childbirth, she had bled to death. His baby son, Scott had been whisked away to her family in Boston to be raised in a proper home, according to his father-in-law, Harlan Garrett, the biggest pompous ass either side of the Mississippi River. Since every ounce of Murdoch's time and devotion was to the rigors and demands of establishing his cattle empire in the untamed lands of California, far from any trace of civility, it seemed to be a workable solution, albeit a temporary one in his mind until he could go to Boston and bring Scott home. That pompous ass didn't see it that way, and kept his son away from him.

Alejandro knew that this friend needed a night of wine, women and song, especially a woman that he could bed and release all those pent-up hurts and anxieties. "Fornicate the loneliness away," to Alejandro's way of thinking. He was well aware of the ideal woman needed to ignite Murdoch's inner flame of passion to wipe away the miserable memories of a long gone wife and failure to being his son home. "Murdoch was and still is a man with physical needs and desires to fulfill, just like the bulls he had purchased," he thought.

Maria wore the brightest red flamenco dress that encased her upper body down to her mid-thighs in a teasing, seductive manner. The dress from the mid-thigh flared into multiple layers of rustling rows of ruffles all the way down to her trim ankles. Murdoch stared in admiration at the low cut of the upper bodice which tightly hugged her full breasts; it dipped low enough to expose several inches of the crevice between her pale, creamy orbs. While the dress sleeves accentuated her long arms with beautifully manicured hands; hands that dared to lift her skirts to showcase black silk stockings inside black boots that she stamped in perfect time to the lively music. The motion and sounds of her long skirts was mesmerizing and tantalizing, as he craned his neck to gaze upon the curves of her shapely legs.

"Heh amigo, I told you that our senoritas are the most muy bueno in all of México, didn't I?" nudged Alejandro, grinning, he knew his amigo would be well taken care of this night. He noted that his friend was practically salivating as he appeared to be hypnotized by the girl's black shining hair.

"What?" Murdoch asked, not disposed to take his eyes off this vision before him, as he absentmindedly sipped his glass of tequila. He had noticed the young creature; some would call her a bromista as she shameless flirted and sashayed her seductive hips around the table, working those endless legs and feet in quick formation, smiling at not just him but all the patrons with unabashed promises of lusty horizontal dancing well into the night.

"She wears the traditional costume with a mantón de manila (shawl) over her shoulders, to tease a man with promises of her body, but we missed that as she's dropped it already," Alejandro explained to his friend.

"Who cares about that?" Murdoch said. "Is she married?"

"Maria has not been pluck off the vine yet, she just turned seventeen. Maybe tonight will be her night to be…ah plucked? Huh?" suggested Alejandro, elbowing his friend.

Murdoch stared at the young women, with her raven-colored hair in a bun adorned with red roses, and a decorative hair comb. Oh how he wanted to remove that comb and loosen her black shining hair to shout "Ole!"

"Do you know her well enough to introduce us?"

"Si, amigo mío," Alejandro grinned. "Her father is my segundo, Angel Madrid Flores."

"What? Your segundo, then he's trying to get her ravished tonight, looking and dancing like that?"

Alejandro grinned, "Murdoch, he has thirteen other kids still at home, he's trying to get her married off. I don't think he's particular as to her virtuous status. After all, do you marry my bulls to your cows?"

"Strange way to look at that comparison, Alejandro," Murdoch chortled on his tequila.

"Here in México we look upon copulation differently than you Americanos. We do purely for fun, especially with girls like Maria, with no wealthy family to protect her virtue until marriage. The question is, do you want to meet Maria Isabel Flores or not?"

Murdoch's 34-years-old eyes devoured the girl half his age, the tightness in his loins spoke of his physical demands, like a thirsty man in the desert, he needed, no, he ached for relief. This whirling girl in the red dress held his gaze, as she clicked her castanets at him, beckoning him to come…drink her water. Her dark eyes held the promise of giving herself wantonly. Murdoch licked his lips and nodded yes to Alejandro.

"Call it what you like," Murdoch said to himself, "The initial copulation, love-making, coupling, fornicating" was now over and done with, after Murdoch rode Maria like a wild stallion while she bucked…bucked…and bucked, driving him inside her deep…deeper, listening to her moans of gratification that matched his, as they both were coated in glistening sweat, breathing heavily in the release. It was without question a night of passion that would forever be burned in his heart and soul. After the passion had abated, next came gentle lovemaking, caresses of two well-matched lovers complete with low moans, soft groans and cries of "oh Dios mío."

Murdoch had undressed her gradually to savor every second, he felt like he was unwrapping a well-wrapped Christmas present, between the long red dress and the layers of underskirts and frills to reach the eventual prize. Maria's breasts were indeed firm, with dark nipples that responded to his suckling of them, like a newborn baby, he pulled and tugged them, rolling them in his large fingers, listening to the girl whimper in delight as she laid withering on the edge of the brass bed in a room at the back of the cantina.

"You like that?" he softly asked.

"Si, senor, más," she wanted more.

Once Maria had been stripped down to her high heel boots and silk stockings, held in place with a lacy black garter belt adorned with more red roses, she was scan any other undergarment, Murdoch couldn't contain his desires any longer as her glistening mound beckoned his attention. He quickly tore off his shirt; buttons flew across the room, while he toed off his boots and stripped his trousers down and off. He large hands encompassed her firm, round rump as he lifted the black-haired beauty to the center of the bed, and took her hard, fast, furious and fully. She used her manicured nails to hold onto his back and wrapped her legs around his muscular buttocks as they moved together in the ritual of mating.

His one thought, "Alejandro was right, her virtuous status…wasn't virginal, as he entered her but then again neither was his." Grinning wide he promised Maria "a long night of pleasure," now that he knew that there wouldn't be any pain involved with her losing something she had already lost.

"Usted estará dolordo en la mañana," he whispered in her ear. (You will be sore come morning).

"No me importa," she murmured. (I don't mind).

"Apuesto a que no," he said, slapping her rump with gusto. (I'll bet you don't).

The long night of pleasure turned into many days and nights as Murdoch and Maria spent the next week and a half celebrating the Carnaval fiesta, dancing, drinking, and in total debauchery of each other. Now it was time for Murdoch to take his stock back to Lancer as some of his hands had arrived to help drive the bulls north.

"Maria, come home with me to Lancer," he implored. "I want you to be my wife."

They married that afternoon, she in her long red flamenco dress, he in a borrowed Charro suit that was black with heavy silver embroidered trim. The trousers were deliberately tight to emphasize his long, lean legs, the bolero jacket reached to his waist and with the high-heeled boots and wide-brimmed sombrero, Murdoch felt taller than his 6'5" frame. His bride who had the good graces to actually blush in front of the priest, stood 5' and some change in her high-heeled boots.

Their initial wedded love-making was as spectacular as the pre-marital couplings had been. Murdoch was a happy man, indeed, as he swooped his bride off her feet to carry her over the ranch's threshold. Maria was soon very pregnant and exceedingly miserable with each passing day with morning sickness, swollen eyes and feet. She did not like this remote ranch, far from any town, any cantina, any bar playing even a tinny out-of-tune player piano. She did not like the townswomen, who whispered after she walked by them, or stood across the street pointing at her swelling belly, uttering "mestizo". She did not like the strange food, Murdoch's kitchen Maria made, almost all beef and potatoes; not as much as one single tamale.

Her pregnancy dragged on, she grew rounder and fat, no longer the vibrant young girl who wore form-fitting red dresses. She was wearing clothes that made her look like a sack of those appalling potatoes. Maria and Murdoch had long, drawn-out arguments, where Maria would throw the nearest breakable object sailing towards his head. Doors were slammed, and Murdoch took to sleeping on the sofa in the great room. People went out of their way to step around him and especially her to avoid upsetting either one with a word or a glance.

The dark-haired, blue-eyed baby boy was born on the 23rd of December, in the year of our Lord, 1853 as noted in the Lancer family bible. It was a cold, blustery winter day. His protesting cries carried throughout the ranch house, at being brought into this cold world. Murdoch proudly carried him from room to room, speaking to him in soft, cooing tones, explaining everything he would one day need to know to run this ranch. Little Johnny yawned and flexed his tiny fists as if he was bored with the whole matter.

Maria was exhausted and wanted nothing to do with the infant, who had caused her belly to swell, leaving her stomach with red, angry marks. "I'll never have the body I once did," she cried into her pillow. She vowed as soon as she could get on her feet, she was leaving this place, this strange land and the man she foolishly married to escape México in the first place.

One month to the day of Johnny's birth, she had the opportunity, as Murdoch was gone to Sacramento for a Cattleman's Association meeting. She took that opportunity, cleared out any cash and silver she could find, and took the baby, leaving a note for Murdoch, that he needed to pay her $10,000 to get Johnny back or she would sell him if he didn't pay her. She would let him know where to send the money. Wearing her now even tighter red dress, she drove the buggy into Morro Coyo to catch the first stagecoach that was headed south and east, towards Tucson, Arizona.

Soon she was running low on money; sold the silver off and then she found the Mission San Xavier del Bac and prayed for guidance. Her baby was a burden she told herself; she had nothing to eat for herself, which made feeding him difficult. So she left him on the altar for someone else to care for him, with a note that his name was Juanito Madrid and his date of birth. Perhaps his father would find him, perhaps not. She no longer cared. Neither meant anything to her.

From Tucson, she traveled further south to Tombstone, where she ran completely out of money. She danced in the Bird Cage Saloon for coins the cowboys would toss. Maria quickly discovered that she could make more money, if she bedded them, as long as she paid the house a percentage of her prostitution dollars. She vowed to not get pregnant again, and thereby only permitted them to take her from behind; no more seed would travel up inside of her to make any more babies. It was at the Bird Cage that she met the silver-tongued gambler, Harvey Lee Qualls, who felt an instant longing for the girl in his loins, for she wore red dresses with her black shining hair.

Harvey's cards in Tombstone ran cold, as his thoughts of lust heated up so they traveled to Nogales, where once the cards grew cold there; they traveled to Sonora, México so that she could once again, taste the food of her homeland. Harvey played cards every night, she danced every night and they made wide, reckless love every night just trying to get by on meager wages and winnings.

Until, one night, Murdoch Lancer's relentless searching discovered them. He now waited and watched outside the hovel, cursed the sight of their sleeping shadows, bodies entwined. In the dark morning silence he placed the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. The gambler's eyes fluttered open for one brief second; long enough for the shock to register and then the flash as Murdoch pulled the trigger. For the final time the gambler's cards grew cold, stone cold. 

Later, in his own hotel room, he knelt by the bed, staring at his gun in his hand, "She had my baby and caused me to care. Now I have neither son," his cry and anguish were profound. As the pain and the anger destroyed his weak mind, on his knees like a madman for vengeance he prayed for she had coldly left him without his son, Murdoch Lancer suffered and cried, "She took my Johnny away. I put her away. That's something for nothing."

And thus it was that Murdoch now sat in the Gato Negro cantina with a whiskey glass pressed to his forehead that he rolled slowly across his furrowed brow, to offer maybe one minuscule morsel of respite from his throbbing headache, tear stains lined his cheeks. The deed was done; his wife lay dead alongside the gambler she had run off with to live in a hovel in Sonora, México without their baby, who had simply vanished, gobbled up by the night by that cold, heartless, dead bitch. 

Murdoch rationalized that he had one obsession now and that was to find his son, no matter how long it took, "Dios, where is my son?" he prayed. "He's all that matters now." He finished his drink, dropped a coin to the table, walked to his horse and rode off in search of his missing son.

~Fin~

Sun Dancer


End file.
